Mummy
by Mrs. Son of Coul
Summary: {After the Fall} John leaves Sherlock and Mycroft to an argument and discovers they've got a visitor. But 221B never gets visitors . . . no visitors by strangers, anyway.


_"I've had a very bad time, Nick,_

_and I'm pretty cynical about everything."_

_Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn't say any more,_

_and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her_

_daughter._

_"I suppose she talks, and-eats, and everything."_

_"Oh, yes." She looked at me absently. "Listen, Nick; let me tell you what_

_I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?"_

_"Very much."_

_"It'll show you how I've gotten to feel about-things. Well, she was less_

_than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether_

_with an utterly abandoned feeling and asked the nurse right away if it_

_was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head_

_away and wept. 'All right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope_

_she'll be a fool-that's the best thing a girl can be in this world,_

_a beautiful little fool'."_

_The Great Gatsby_

DRAFT: THE BLIND VIOLINIST

November 21, 2012

"Now, really, Sherlock, you're throwing an absolute tantrum."

"I have no interest in chasing down a bank robber, Mycroft. Not worth my time."

You have no idea how many times I've heard conversations just like this.

Too many.

They're amusing until they involve me – then they're a headache.

It was during one such discussion that I got peckish and left. I was only out about half an hour, and when I got back, there was a woman in sweats and a hoodie leaning against our door.

I asked if I could help her.

I remember the way she looked at me. Her eyes were dull and bloodshot and I realized she wasn't just leaning on the door; she was holding on for dear life.

"Are you John?" Her voice was deep and breathy. Weak.

"Yes."

"Is he home?"

I could only assume she meant Sherlock.

"Yes."

She reached for the knob and almost fell over. I caught her – meaning I stepped behind her – and opened the door. Mrs. Hudson had bought a new sofa for the tenants downstairs and I felt bad that it was dusty, but she didn't complain, or even seem to notice. The way she carried herself just didn't match what she was wearing. Her hood was up, and I'd have thought she was a scam artist, but something about her face was familiar, like I'd met her before.

"Wait here, I'll have him come down." She laughed.

"I won't hold my breath."

That was new – someone who didn't seem put off with, well, _Sherlock._

I ran up to our flat where he and Mycroft were still having it out.

"Why must you always be so petulant?" Sherlock grinned and shredded off a particularly sour arpeggio.

"Um, excuse me-"

"You do realize, of course, that you're being very childish."

"And what exactly will you do it I refuse to help you?"

I could almost hear Mycroft narrow his eyes.

"I can _make _you help."

"Ah, just like you _made _me clean your messes. Naturally, I'm the only one being childish." He turned from the window. "John?"

"You have a visitor. Downstairs." He huffed and stared outside.

"I don't get visitors."

"Well, you've got one today. She's downstairs."

"Is she incapable of using the _stairs_?"

"Sherlock. Really. Can't you just go down? She needs your help." He turned back to me and lowered his violin.

"With _what? What's the case?_"

I really didn't know what to say. I started to fumble for words when both he and Mycroft ran past me out the door and towards the stairs.

Mycroft even left his cane.

I turned to look and they were helping the woman up the stairs. Both of them. Without ribbing each other.

I'd heard of miracles, but this was different.

I gestured to my chair and turned it towards the fire. Mycroft went into the kitchen and I could hear him making tea. Mycroft. The face I had started putting to the British government was making tea. And Sherlock was silent save for the occasional encouragement to the woman.

Maybe this wasn't a miracle. Maybe this was some twisted dream. Maybe Sherlock had drugged me with something. Again.

But there was something about the two of them, something brought out by the fuss they were making over this woman, something in their faces that was just . . . _sad._

"Really, Sherlock, there's no need to make an old woman of me." I looked at her and the firelight showed me lines of love and worry and pain I'd missed before. Mycroft brought out a tray of tea and she smiled. "Mycroft. I didn't think you'd be here."

He smiled – _Mycroft _actually _smiled_ – and he handed her a mug.

"Yes, ma'am."

I stood a little straighter. Anyone Mycroft called "ma'am" by choice must be terrifyingly powerful.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock's voice was shockingly gentle.

"I have nowhere else to go." Her voice was flat and controlled.

"But _you _were awarded the estate," Mycroft said. She looked up at him and I could see then that there were tears in her eyes and that she was shivering.

"It is mine only if he is not seeking reconciliation." She sipped her tea. "There's always fine print, Mycroft."

I draped a blanket over her shoulders and she pulled it tighter around herself.

"What has he done?" Sherlock's voice was all but a growl. She downed the entire mug in one shot.

"I need your help."

"I can have MI5 with you at all times."

Okay – powerful _and _important.

"I appreciate that, but I don't think that would stop him." Mycroft took her mug and Sherlock refilled it. "It never has before."

"What if . . ." I'd never heard Sherlock hesitate before, but then I'd never seen Mycroft defer to anyone. "What if we were to stage your death?" Her gaze was stone.

"Let's not go through that again."

"Are _you_ okay?" I felt like an idiot asking that, but I had to. She looked up – but not at – me, as if she couldn't. A tear fell and she stiffened.

"Thank you."

Sherlock and Mycroft looked at me.

"Um, sure, yeah. For . . . what?"

"For being his friend."

Her eyes closed and she sipped her tea robotically. I glanced at Sherlock and Mycroft gently took her mug. Sherlock lifted her from the chair and carried her back to his room. I followed – as a doctor, I felt I had to check on her. As he laid her down, her hood fell back and I just stared.

She was bald.

Or rather, mostly bald. Either she was very ill, or she had tried to shave her own head. Or both.

Sherlock pulled a quilt up to her chin, turned, and walked out. He kept clenching his fists. Not good. Last time he was visibly angry, an American CIA agent fell out of our window nearly a dozen times. But then he hadn't been angry enough that his body had betrayed him.

I followed, shutting the door behind me. Mycroft was speaking softly on his mobile, and Sherlock sat down, staring at the violin in his hands.

"Has she got cancer?" I asked just as Mycroft hung up.

"No," Mycroft answered. "At least, not the kind you might imagine." He turned to Sherlock. "Do try your best to _not _shoot the wall. MI5 won't take kindly to your antics."

I sat down across from Sherlock as Mycroft descended the stairs and waited. He stared past me for hours. I had nearly dozed off when he slammed his palm down on the armrest of the chair, cursing loudly.

"Well then, tell us how you really feel." He stared at me and a smile curved his mouth for a moment before it vanished.

"She has to stay with us, John." I nodded. He shifted and stared into the fire.

"So who is she?"

"Mm?" He stared at me in genuine surprise.

"That woman. Is she a sister, or a cousin, maybe?"

"No." He turned back to the fire. "No, John. That's our mother."


End file.
